


Mice and Men

by Kroki_Refur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-22
Updated: 2007-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27557131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: Set after AHBL II. Turns out Rabbie Burns was right all along.
Kudos: 4





	Mice and Men

“I’ve found a ritual,” says Sam somewhere in Indiana, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darting side to side, like they always do these days. “I think it’ll work this time, Dean, I really do.”

Dean tries to keep his face blank, nods, careful not to clench the wheel too tight (Sam notices everything these days). Endless fields fly past on either side of the car, and all he can think is not again. Please, I can’t do this again.

\----

The first time is in South Dakota, and Dean’s stiff and sore after their last exorcism, five of the freakin things in a month, and Sam’s been getting more and more distracted which leads to both of them getting more and more fucked up (thrown into walls, half-drowned, hung up by their wrists like they’re in a bad fantasy flick) until Dean finally agreed that they could stop, could leave the demon-hunting to the rest of the crew for a while and take off for Bobby’s library. Truth be told, even if Dean hadn’t almost got his head cracked open the last time, he would have had to give in soon anyway; Sam promised not to run, but Sam also promised to save him, and Dean knows the one promise didn’t count for a handful of beans against the other in his brother’s mind. So here they are, South Dakota and hot, and Dean’s back is hurting just watching the way Sam’s hunched over Bobby’s books, and he’s thinking there’s not going to be anything and he’s thinking it’s not like Bobby knows everything anyway and he’s thinking I’m going to Hell, when Sam looks up, dust in his hair that makes him look twenty years older than he is, and says found something.

That’s the first time. And afterwards, two weeks later when the last of the incense has curled away into the night and Sam’s staring like he’s forgotten how to close his eyes and Bobby’s sighing and saying it was a long shot anyway, Dean thinks let that be the last time.

\----

“I think I know where we’ve been going wrong,” says Sam, scribbling furiously in the book he always keeps with him these days (not Dad’s journal; Sam has his own book now). “These sigils are – see, using Christian magic is no good, they’ve found ways of countering that, it’s like an arms race. We need to use their own powers against them, I think I can--”

Dean stops listening. He doesn’t need to listen to know that it won’t work, and he doesn’t need to hear the tone of Sam’s voice to know that his brother’s losing it. He wants to help, wants to make that stretched look go away, but he can’t, he can’t. Instead, he drops down to the Midwest dirt (enjoy that dirt, Dean, only six weeks before you’ll never have the chance again) and says what do I have to do?

\----

At first, Sam is determined. He doesn’t sleep a whole lot, stays up all night researching, tells Dean about it, everything he finds, every idea he has. I’m going to save you, he says, and Dean thinks I’m going to Hell and Dean thinks stubborn son of a bitch and Dean thinks I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but all he says is what do I have to do? Sam’s got plans, ideas, always something new, some ingenious way to make it all OK again, but Sam never thinks about doing any of it without Dean, even if he could, even if it’s so simple he could do it with his eyes closed. He never goes it alone, for all his independence, for all his running off to Stanford and his claims that he’s old enough to take care of himself, he never even thinks about going it alone, and for that Dean is grateful.

I’m going to Hell, Dean thinks. He tries to be grateful for that, too.

\----

The latest one (the last one, please let it be the last one) is complex, and that makes it easy, easy to scuff a tiny corner of the symbol drawn in the Indiana dust, easy to twitch a finger the wrong way during the incantation, easy to tear down Sam's careful plans. Sam notices everything these days, eyes too wide, tracks of red spidering across the whites like he’s been drinking for days, but he can’t always be looking, and when the candles burn bright and nothing happens one more time, Dean lets his face drop and whispers I’m sorry (and he is).

“This was supposed to work,” says Sam, staring down at the dark stains on the ground, blood of my blood.

Dean’s got used to this now, but it doesn’t stop the wrench of guilt and fear. There’s no other way, though. He hears her voice, echoing in his mind (if you try to welsh or weasel your way out, then the deal is off -- Sam drops dead, and he’s back to rotting meat in no time), and he thinks there’s no other way and he thinks I’m going to Hell and he thinks please let this be the last time.

And this time, it is.

\----

Sam stops talking in Jacksonville, Florida, after seven rituals, four consultations with witches, two seances and a visit to an archbishop who they only just managed to convince not to call the cops. There’s three months to go (and Dean’s going to Hell).

It’s not that Sam’s stops talking entirely. He still says yes and no sometimes (though less and less often), and he’ll speak for himself if there’s really no way around it; the rest of the time, though, is silence, and Dean tries insults and playing the music too loud and stories that make even Dean feel a little disgusted, but it all just bounces off. Sam’s just there, huge and silent (and Sam’s been huge for years, but Dean’s never really noticed it before, not like he does now), and the only time he becomes Sam again (or almost Sam, tired and manic and maybe a little frightening) is when he thinks he’s found a new thing they can try, a new idea that Dean has to think of a way to mess up.

Dean says get your ass out of bed, mute boy and Dean says blink once for yes and twice for I’m a thirteen-year-old girl, and Dean doesn’t say I’m going to Hell.

Sam doesn’t say anything at all.

\----

There’s ten days to go when Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to find Sam gone and knows, knows something is wrong, because Sam hasn’t let Dean out of his sight for the last two weeks. Sam’s bag is gone, too, and when Dean flicks on the light, it’s like it’s too watery, to weak to push back the greasy darkness and Dean knows.

The car’s still there, sitting in the almost-empty parking lot, and the air’s so humid Dean has to fight to breathe. There’s ten days to go and Sam’s gone and something is wrong.

Sam never even thinks about going it alone, and Dean’s grateful for that, that’s been Dean’s saving grace, and some things never change. Problem is, some things do.

\----

Sam starts talking again at a rest stop on I-85, and Dean’s so surprised to hear his brother’s voice that he doesn’t even think to give him crap about it. It’s three weeks after the failed ritual in Indiana, and the sky’s so wide that Dean has to look at it sideways, like if he sees the whole thing he’ll be crushed by the weight of it, and Sam says I stole a book from the school library once and just doesn’t stop. He talks about things they did when they were kids and books he’s read, he talks about Stanford and Jess and the plans they used to make for the future, he talks about whether Superman or Batman would win in a fight, he talks about the price of tea in China (and, being Sam, the relevance of that to the world economy), and Dean just sits back and listens like it’s going out of style.

Dean’s going to Hell (Dean’s going to Hell) in less than a month, and he’s known about it for a year, and he can’t say he’s got no regrets (should have come back five minutes earlier should have shot the bastard when I had a chance should have made them listen), but he’d do it again if given the same choice. He’s accepted what he’s got to do, and now he thinks maybe Sam has, too. He feels warm and cold as he listens to Sam’s voice, because his brother’s alive and going to stay that way, and because Sam’s given up on him. Sam just rambles right on, and Dean says dude, you ever heard of taking a breath? and Dean says hey, is there an off switch around here somewhere? and Dean thinks last chance, don’t stop.

The sky goes on for ever, and so does the road. Dean’s going to Hell, but the world will go on without him.

\----

There’s an intersection of two dirt roads a mile from the motel, and the surface of the ground in the centre’s messed up, like it’s been recently disturbed. Sweat’s dripping down Dean’s back, and he’s not even dressed, barefoot walking down an empty road in a town he can’t remember the name of, and the light’s getting stronger all the time, and something’s wrong, something’s wrong. He doesn’t have a shovel, but the soil’s loose and easy to dislodge, and the box is buried less than six inches down, Sam’s picture staring out from a cheap fake FBI badge and Dean knows what this is because he did it himself a year ago minus ten days.

Sam’s sitting by the edge of the road a few hundred yards further on, long legs sprawling, face blank. The leading edge of the sun clears the horizon, and soupy light filters through the stifling air.

Dean wants to say something, wants to yell, wants to make him take it back because how can this be, this can’t be, Sam always tells him what he’s planning, always, but he can’t remember how to make his throat and tongue work to produce sound, and the edges of Sam’s FBI badge are digging into his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam, and the words fall dull and thudding in the heavy air. “I tried everything else, but nothing worked.”

Dean thinks this can’t be happening and Dean thinks there’s gotta be a way to reverse it and Dean thinks this is my fault.

“How long did you get?” he asks, tongue clumsy, throat raw.

Sam doesn’t look up; the sunlight reaches his feet, but his face is still in shadow, and Dean hears dogs barking in the distance.


End file.
